


The Secret Ingredient

by Aikori_Ichijouji



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baking, Baz is shit at baking, Birthday Surprises, Fluff, Like a bad neighbor I don't use a beta, M/M, More fluff than sour cherry scones, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Unabashed references to GBBO, but makes up for it in determination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aikori_Ichijouji/pseuds/Aikori_Ichijouji
Summary: "Bunce had very kindly—and very discreetly—loaned me the use of her and Simon’s kitchen. The last thing I needed was for Fiona to pop in unexpectedly and witness my culinary catastrophe. I’d never hear the end of it.Today is Simon’s birthday and I’m driving myself to madness trying to make sour cherry scones."A.K.A. Baz & Baking: An Attempt Was Made.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	The Secret Ingredient

The bin receives my latest failure with a swish followed by sickeningly wet plop. A cloud of flour plumes upward before I could close the lid and I flirt with the idea of igniting it just for the sick joy of setting the entire kitchen aflame. (Obsession with fire is a lifelong commitment and one I take quite seriously.)

Alas, it wasn’t my kitchen to immolate. Bunce had very kindly—and very discreetly—loaned me the use of her and Simon’s kitchen for several hours. The last thing I needed was for Fiona to pop in unexpectedly and witness my culinary calamity. I’d never hear the end of it.

Today is Simon’s birthday and I’m driving myself to madness trying to make sour cherry scones. A task I soon learned would prove to be nigh impossible once I’d phoned Cook Pritchard for the recipe. I knew there had to be some magic involved in the way she’d prepare seemingly endless batches of them each morning. What I found out was that she made the first, and only, successful batch decades ago. She’s been casting **_second verse same as the first_ **on copies of it ever since. I really can’t fault her for efficiency.

Still, I wanted to do it the hard way. The Normal way. I know full well I’m being unnecessarily stubborn. (Old habits and all that.) It means more to me that I accomplish this without the aid of magic or money—short of what I already spent on ingredients. I can do this. I _will_ do this. For him.

I suppose this is what happens when the object one’s unrequited affections decides to violently requite itself and make a mess of a nest in your life whilst quibbling with you the entire time. (But we wouldn’t have it any other way. This is our merry war because the one we were supposed to have never came to fruition and we’re all the gladder for it.) You find yourself in their kitchen, covered head to toe in flour with three cookbooks and a laptop strewn across what little countertop space is available. Because giving them even one second of fleeting joy is worth hours of torment.

Merlin and Morgana, I am a hapless, helpless, hopeless romantic.

My phone rings and I turn circles in the tiny kitchen in search of it. It’s trapped beneath a cookbook. I pull it free and send another cloud of flour into the air. Cold dread settles heavy in my stomach when I see the name on the screen. It’s Bunce. They must be headed back to the flat from whatever diversion she concocted to keep him away.

“Status report,” Bunce demands the instant I answer.

I wince as I look at the disaster I’ve created. Everything Is coated in a fine film of white and there are smears of butter here and there in the shape of my thumb. What hair that’s broken free of the elastic I bound them with atop my head is hanging in my face. I groan.

“About as well as can be expected.” 

She huffs a laugh. “The prodigious Pitch bested by some pastry? I thought you were brilliant at everything.”

“Evidently not,” I snarl at her teasing alliteration. “Where’s Snow?”

“Toilets,” she explains. “Figured I’d call and see how you’re getting on. How much longer do you need?”

“I— how long does one typically need to regain one’s dignity?” I want to throw my faltering voice in the rubbish as well.

Bunce clicks her tongue. “I don’t know why you’re torturing yourself for this. Simon will love anything you do for him.”

“I know,” I breathe. “I know. I just wanted this to be perfect.”

“No one’s perfect, Basil. Not even you.” She prunes my insecurities like a master bonsai artist and I’d hate her if she wasn’t so bloody good at it. “Just cast **_it’s the thought that counts_ ** on them and be done with it.”

Me, use a spell designed to make ugly neckties, socks with shitty patterns, and children’s dry pasta art more endearing to the recipient? I make a face. Crowley, it’s as if she doesn’t even know me.

“No,” I growl, pressing the phone to my cheek until I feel granules of sugar grinding into it. “I do this my way or not at all.”

“Of course,” she sighs. “Well, you’ve an hour to figure it out. So put your whole heart into it and get it _done._ ”

She hangs up without another word and I want to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I place it back under the cookbook and take stock of my remaining ingredients. Turning to the notes on my laptop—where I made meticulous records of my previous attempts—I decide I have enough for one last effort. This is it. I send a half-hearted prayer up to Mary (Berry; the patron saint of all baked goods) and throw myself back into the fray.

Gratuitous mixing, kneading, rolling, and circular cutting later, I’ve produced my best batch yet. The cherries look evenly distributed throughout. The dough isn’t soggy or sopping but still looks soft and light. Carefully, I brush the tops with milk, pop the tray into the oven, and set a timer. The scones will be done in fifteen minutes which, according to the time on my phone, means they’ll finish right when Simon returns.

I fetch my wand from where I left it in the pocket of my jacket hanging by the door. While I was determined to refrain from using magic, I knew I didn’t have the time to clean up without it. The flour and butter catastrophe vanishes with a few choice words. I almost forget to do the same to myself until I see the white handprint I leave behind on my laptop when I close it.

The scones are rising beautifully in the oven when I crouch down to check on them and I can’t keep the smile from my lips. Saint Mary Berry has bestowed her blessing and I’m exceedingly proud of myself. But, I hear Bunce’s final words to me before she hung up, telling me to put my whole heart into it. It gives me pause.

I spent the entire day trying to prove that I didn’t need magic to make a heartfelt gesture. But magic is a part of me and leaving it out meant I wasn’t giving all I could. Not once has Simon ever begrudged my magic after we left Watford. (Not openly, though I have spotted the sad, wistful expression crossing his face whenever Bunce or I would cast something.) I wasn’t holding off for him. I was holding off for me and the flagrant misconception that using magic somehow made me less worthy. (Worthy of what exactly? Don’t get me started.)

I rock back onto my heels and point my wand at the oven door. “ ** _With all my heart_** ,” I whisper, though there’s no one around to hear me.

It’s a largely inconsequential spell and more ceremonial than anything else. But it’s a final ingredient of sorts. A feeling rather than a flavor.

Simon crashes into the flat in his usual cacophonous manner with Bunce bringing up the rear. He stops short when he sees me piling scones onto a plate. I look up to see his bewilderment and my mouth tilts reflexively into a smirk.

“I thought you had an exam today.”

“I did, but I took it a day early so I could make you these.” I walk towards him, holding the plate out as an offering. “Happy Birthday, Simon.”

I’ll never tire of his blustering. Particularly when I’m the cause.

His eyes are wide as he takes the plate from me. I lead him over to the saucer of cold butter I set out. He just looks between scones and me in deafening silence. I made Simon Snow speechless, and all it took was a little flour, sugar, milk, and egg.

Setting down the plate beside the butter, he breaks open the topmost scone. I hear him sigh with delight when steam curls up into the air from the middle. He wastes no time in shoving a thick slice of butter between the halves and taking a bite.

“How’d you—” he breaks off to continue chewing. “They taste exactly as I remember. Only… better. What did you add?”

My smirk is a full-fledged grin at this point.

“I can’t give away all my secrets, love.” I deliberately pause a bit before saying that last word, hoping he’ll catch my meaning in doing so.

Alas, I am too subtle and he is too busy inhaling the remainder of the scone before diving in for a second. However, I catch the knowing glint in Bunce’s eye as she pats Simon affectionately on the arm. She mouths ‘you owe me’ from over his shoulder and, as terrifying as the prospect sounds, I nod in agreement.

END

**Author's Note:**

> This one, thankfully, did not keep me up all night. It just monopolized the majority of my day. As one does.


End file.
